


Table Talk

by SomedayTheSky



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Asexual Enjolras, Asexuality Spectrum, Basically how les amis came to be in a modern college setting, Betaed, But it's also got plot and stuff, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Heist, LGBTQ Themes, Latino Character, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Musician Grantaire, My dorky version of humor, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Venezuelan Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 21:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14902662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomedayTheSky/pseuds/SomedayTheSky
Summary: What does it take to fall in love? A couple flirty exchanges in a local coffee shop? Unexpected support during difficult times? A series of casual hook ups with someone exciting and new?Enjolras is pretty sure he’s going to disappoint everybody when he goes to college, but that all changes when he meets Grantaire—a compassionate aspiring pianist who shows up during all of Enjolras’ worst moments with just the right mix of empathy and bilingualism. Meanwhile, Jehan, a librarian, flirts shamelessly with Montparnasse, a member of a dangerous group of thieves which just so happens to need a literary expert for its next heist—a heist that could end up pushing everyone apart or bringing them much closer together.





	Table Talk

**Barista**

 

“Triple mocha frappuccino for…” The barista pretended to make out the name on the cup. “George…? Oh, sorry,  _ gorgeous _ .”

The name on the cup was  _ Christopher _ —they’d gotten close to Combeferre, sort of—but Enjolras wasn’t going to point that out when his friend was so clearly living for the attention of the theater major who worked in the little coffee shop in the university’s library. (Don’t ask him how he knew the barista was a theater major; he just had a talent for these things.) 

(Okay, the man looked like he was about to burst into song or aggressively quote Shakespeare at you.)

The barista winked as he passed the drink over the counter—if it weren’t for Combeferre’s dark skin, the blush creeping up his neck would’ve been ridiculously evident. Their hands brushed each other’s just barely and Combeferre’s gaze darted to the floor as he pushed up his tortoiseshell glasses.

Enjolras discreetly rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, and a black coffee,” the stranger added, noting his disdain, “for… Erica…?”

“Enjolras,” he corrected dismally, taking the cup. “Thank you.” He was pretty sure that after four years of coming to this coffee shop at least a few times a week, the baristas were just messing with him by getting his name wrong.

“No problem,” the barista—his name tag said Courfeyrac—ran a hand through his hair and leaned on the counter. “So…” he started in a way that suggested he was about to attempt some small talk. Keyword:  _attempt._ “How are y’all’s studies going? Only a couple more weeks and then it’s college?”

Combeferre was too caught up in whatever charm he perceived in this stranger to decently hold a conversation, so Enjolras filled in reluctantly, “Yeah, we’ve just got three more weeks of classes and then finals and—”

“And then you’re free,” Courfeyrac finished. Enjolras found nothing freeing in starting university, but he stayed silent. “God, I can’t believe it was just last year I was in high school; so much has changed…. Are you both coming here next year?”

Enjolras suddenly found himself unable to speak around the lump in his throat. 

“That’s the plan,” Combeferre took over for him. “Him for political science, me for biology.” When they both combined their forces, they could almost pass as a semi-functional human being.

“Man, it’s got to be tough to go to a school your mom started, Erica… like, that’s a lot of pressure, you know? What happens if you get expelled, do you have to go to her office to chat?” He was smiling, but nobody else was—not even Combeferre, which Enjolras was grateful for. 

“It’ll be great to keep seeing you around, though,” Courfeyrac continued cluelessly (mostly to Combeferre).

“Yes, I’m sure we’ll all be great friends,” Enjolras said harshly—his words always came out harsher than he meant them to. “‘Ferre and I have studying to get to. We’ll see you.”

 

**Intrepid**

 

“Hello, Jean Prouvaire,” Combeferre always made an attempt to greet them no matter how stormy a mood Enjolras was in—clearly this was one such occasion, as the boy was practically in tears.

Jehan smiled back at him and waved—they knew better than to talk to the two of them when Enjolras was in one of his states. They continued their task of sorting books that had just been returned into their proper places on the shelves. Even though they’d had this job for several years (it let them be around books while paying off a tiny portion of the MFA in creative writing they were in the process of acquiring) they still had to sing the alphabet in their head sometimes to know for sure that Jorge Luis Borges came before Gwendolyn Brooks.

“Hello…?” someone asked, snapping them out of their head mid-song.

“How can I help you?” they asked kindly, tossing the French braid they’d done that morning over their shoulder and turning to see who was talking to them.

He was sitting there like he owned the place, his shiny black doc martens kicked up on a table, arms crossed, eyes halfway shut like he couldn’t even be bothered to stay awake. Tattoos snaked up and down his arms, contrasting with his impeccable clothing—a button down, trendily pre-ripped jeans, a bomber jacket in jet black (probably designer)...

“It’s you,” Jehan said, knowing they were probably already blushing just from seeing him.

“Sure is.”

“Wh-what are you doing here—and after I said—”

“No need to get worked up; I’m just saying hi,” he shrugged, apathetic.

“I thought I specified—”

“Can you really stay mad at me forever?”

If there was one thing they could not stand, it was being interrupted. They turned back to the bookshelf and continued to alphabetize, determined to be just as  _ chill _ as he was. “This isn’t your living room, dear.”

“I’m aware—”

“Get your feet off the table.” They paused. “Dear.”

He laughed—sort of a hoarse thing—and put his legs down, stretching. “Look. If I would’ve known it was going to bother you, I wouldn’t have done it, Jehan, and I’m not talking about feet on the table—”

They took the chair across from him, spreading their palms against the tabletop. They were obviously going to have to spell it all out for the fifth time. “You checked out exactly forty-three books on the fifth of September, 2014. You then proceeded to keep the aforementioned books until January of this year. This is more than sufficient to result in the termination of your library account, especially because you’re not a student here. And no, I won’t make an exception for you just because you’re pretty. Or my friend.”

“I don’t have friends,” he said, evidently not thinking to question the  _ pretty _ bit.

Jehan couldn’t imagine their life without friends. They couldn’t imagine not being able to call up somebody or another at any hour of the day or night and tell them everything on their mind. They couldn’t imagine having nobody to bake cupcakes or share drafts of poems with, couldn’t imagine how lonely and vulnerable and terrifying life would be if they were completely and utterly alone like that. They wouldn’t wish friendlessness upon anybody.

“Don’t be silly. I’m your friend,” they declared. “But I am not letting you steal more books.”

“I prefer the term  _ borrow for a period of time that is not strictly legal _ . Look, I wanted to read some poetry, and I know you’re the best person to ask for recommendations, but if you can’t help me…”

Damn, he had them. Any other genre and they would’ve stayed strong, but they just couldn’t resist people who wanted poetry recommendations. “How’d you know I’m a poet?” they asked, twirling their braid through their fingers. “Who told you?”

“Nobody told me.”

“Then how’d you—”

“I took my chances.”

They folded their arms across their chest, sour. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look… poetic.” He nodded at their outfit—a colorful plaid scarf over a t-shirt printed with tiny neon cactuses and a floor length, mustard yellow skirt.

“Hey, at least I  _ buy _ my clothes,” they adjusted their scarf, recognizing the sarcasm in his tone. 

“The guys in my neighborhood think they’re tough… they should really meet you.” Even though he was being facetious, they could tell he kind of meant it. Which made them smile. 

“I can’t give you any of this poetry, Montparnasse….”

“I don’t  _ want _ any of that poetry. I want yours.”

 

**Falling**

 

Enjolras felt a little like his life was in a different key than everyone else’s. Like he was in a big golden cage, trying to squeeze through bars that kept getting tighter and tighter. Like the floor sometimes dropped away and everyone but him knew how to float—like he was the only one falling.

It was why he’d run from the coffee shop. It was why he’d ran from the library. It was why he was curled into a ball on the pavement outside, feeling like he was dying.

“Are you okay?” someone asked. Male voice. A little abrasive without trying to be. Barely audible over the hammering in Enjolras’ chest, over his hyperventilation. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

The last thing Enjolras wanted was to explain what he was going through to a stranger when he hardly knew what he was going through himself. But he also didn’t want to be rushed to the emergency room. “I’m fine,” he managed.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re dying.”

He shut his eyes tight, clung onto himself like that would help him sprout wings. “Panic attack,” he managed between gasps. 

“God, I can relate.” Whoever this person was sat next to him—far enough that he had plenty of space, but close enough for him to know he hadn’t been abandoned. “When I have panic attacks, it helps a lot if people talk to me. But maybe you want to be left alone.”

“Stay,” he said impulsively, surprising himself.

“Sure, I’d be glad to. You know, my mom would always sing to me when I was panicking—this weird little song in Spanish.  _ Sana, sana, colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana _ …. It means something along the lines of  _ heal, heal, frog’s little butt, if you don’t heal today, you’ll heal tomorrow _ . Most moms sing it when their kids bruise a knee, not when their kids have mental breakdowns, but… I don’t know, it always worked. A combination of that song and therapy will cure all that ails you. Hey, what’s your name, by the way?”

“Enjolras.”

“Nice to meet you. Don’t feel like you have to tell me anything, but if you want to say whatever’s on your mind, I’m listening. Or I can just keep rambling, or grab some water or something—whatever works.”

He finally broke into tears then. Good. Tears were good. They meant that the blind panic was over, that emotion could slip back in around his hard edges. “My mom is the only person I have,” he started, and then stopped, shocked at himself for even this slight a disclosure.

“Mmm-hmm,” the stranger hummed, unfazed. Enjolras could somehow  _ hear _ the way he was being looked at in that moment—and it was without judgement.

“She’s worked so hard to get to where she is,” he continued, “to give me a good education, to give everyone who wants it a good education—she’s incredible and so smart and so capable, and I love her so much, and I’m proud that she made this incredible place.” It felt good to let go, to shout into the wind—to tell his secrets to someone who didn’t know him and probably would never know him. 

“I could never do what she’s done,” he continued, more resolute, less ashamed. “People are expecting me to be some sort of prodigy like she was, but I’m not. They want me to be a genius, but I’m just me.”

“Enjolras,” the stranger said. “Is it okay if I touch you?” At Enjolras’ nod, he put a reassuring hand on the small of his back. “I know it’s insanely difficult to do anything at all right now, but you have to breathe.”

Enjolras swiped at his tears messily and then finally lifted his head to attempt to smile—or at least glare commiseratingly—at this person who was being so kind to him. He looked about the same age as Enjolras, with olive colored skin, gray eyes, and wild, dark hair. He was wearing a nice dress shirt and pants and beat-up adidas, holding a campus map and a book of Chopin’s etudes in his free hand. 

“I’m Grantaire,” he smiled. “Encantado de conocerte.”

“Spanish,” Enjolras said perceptively, using Grantaire’s hand to pull himself to a more normal seated position. 

“Si, soy de Venezuela,” he winked. “Inmigré con mis padres cuando tenía cinco años.”

“I wish I could say I understood more than two words of that.”

He smiled wryly. “¿No entiendes español? En ese caso, eres el chico más hermoso que yo he visto en mi vida.”

“I don't need to know Spanish to figure out that you just hit on me.”

He made a face. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those straight guys who’s terrified by the idea of queer people finding them attractive.”

“Who says I’m straight? Or terrified? Or attractive?”

“You’re… you’re queer?” 

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows, genuinely curious. “You’re asking because you find me—?”

“Well, I sincerely doubt there’s anyone you know who  _ isn’t _ somewhat infatuated by you.”

“Perhaps when they first meet me,” he conceded. “But my personality deters most forms of adoration after three and a half days of acquaintanceship, on average. Combeferre—my friend—actually has a spreadsheet going—”

“But you’re lovely—”

“I’m inhospitable, stubborn, over-opinionated—”

“Single?”

“Still in high school—”

“Well, I figured. I am, too.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“Auditioning for the music conservatory for next year. Which I know is super last minute, but…” he shrugged like there was more to that story than he cared to admit. “They agreed to hear me even though the application deadline has long since passed. And I probably won’t get in, but… I have to try.”

“You know, they wouldn’t make an exception for anybody who isn’t really, really gifted.”

Grantaire smiled gratefully, glancing at his book of sheet music. “Thank you for saying that. I… I really should get going if I don’t want to be late.”

“Oh,” Enjolras ignored the weird sinking feeling in his stomach. “Okay. Thank you for… for your help. Good luck on your audition.”

“Thank  _ you _ . It was my pleasure.”

Enjolras hated to see him go. He liked Grantaire—weird, that feeling of just  _ liking _ someone, of letting your guard down so easy.

Enjolras thought, as he went back to Combeferre, that he’d been wrong before—when the ground dropped from beneath him, he didn’t need to float like everyone else. He didn’t need to sprout wings. He just needed to learn how to fall from someone who was good at it. And Grantaire had fallen many, many times.

 

**Petrichor**

 

“ _ My _ poetry?” Jehan asked, blushing. They blushed so easily. It was true, what Montparnasse had said before, about them being tough. Jehan was so open, so kind, so friendly. They’d never stolen or probably even squished a wayward ant in their life. But if they joined the Patron-Minette—they would never, but if they  _ did _ —they’d end up doing wondrously; he could just feel it. 

“Your poetry,” Montparnasse leaned back. “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t think it’s your style,” they said defensively, folding their arms over their chest and going back to the bookshelves. “I write about… clouds, flowers, holding hands—you’d find it so dull—”

“Is that really what you think of me?” He stood up and followed them. “That I’m some college dropout turned thief and sexual deviant, my heart too corrupt to appreciate a couple pure love poems?” 

“Am I wrong?”

Yes, Jean Prouvaire would do just fine on the streets. “Not strictly.”

They smiled—a thing like honeyed tea, that face of theirs—and dug out a small, leather-bound notebook from inside of a skirt pocket. (Skirts were definitely not meant to have pockets.) “I have drafts in here if you’re really interested….”

He reached for it and they smacked his hand with the book lightly. “What?” he laughed, shaking it out.

“They’re not  _ free _ , brigand—”

“Nobody knows what that word means, poet—”

“Criminal—”

“Beautiful.”

“No, brigand  _ means _ crimin—” they blushed slightly as what he said processed—the kind of blush they did when they were trying to seem completely unflustered. “My poems aren’t free,” they ignored the compliment. “I’ve got bills, you know.”

“As do I.”

They bit back a smile. It made them look mischievous in a way that sent Montparnasse’s mind racing. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Jehan leaned back against a shelf, discreetly making sure no one else was around. “I’d trade my notebook for a kiss.”

His cold, withered heart skipped several beats.

“Breathe, Montparnasse,” Jehan instructed coolly, but he could see them blushing an even darker shade of red, fidgeting a bit. “I’m sorry. Only do it if you want to—”

“I’m not in love with you,” he said quickly, astonished that some part of him felt guilty and wrong saying this.

“I know,” they spoke softer, lower. “I know how you look at me—you’re in lust. And it’s mutual—did you just pinch yourself?”

“What? No. Look, I just… I…” he touched their braid tentatively. “I think you’re… I don’t want to break your heart or hurt you—”

“(A) who says I’d let you, and (b), maybe I don't mind a little pain,” they traced over the tattoos on one of his arms with their finger. “If you think one kiss is enough to get me obsessed, you grossly underestimate me.” Their tracing had turned more into them lightly running their nails over his arm. “But I’d love to be proven wrong.”

He brushed some stray bits of hair away from their face, still not quite believing they meant it, that they—Jean Prouvaire—were capable of such sentiments. “I don’t think your poems are really about clouds,” he said dumbly.

“No, perhaps not.” They touched his face lightly, almost pityingly, and he let his eyes fall shut. “If you don't want me, you can just say so. You don't have to pretend for my benefit.”

Montparnasse grabbed their waist roughly and pulled them to him. He knew he should say something clever, but the only words that he managed over the pounding in his chest were, “You are absolutely the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

They hummed contentedly and fit themselves into his arms like they were pieces of the same puzzle. “I find strange things to be remarkably attractive.” Jehan smelled like cool, clean rain on hot pavement. Was there a word for that? He would have to ask them later; they knew all the words.

He’d intended to kiss them fast and hard when he'd pulled them in, to make it hurt a little like they said they enjoyed. But that was not at all Jehan’s style. You couldn't shout a kiss at someone whose expressions were mostly quiet whispers of quoted poetry or articulate, level-headed challenges. “You know where ‘Ponine and I live,” he said slowly, just barely brushing his lips against the smooth curve between their collarbone and their neck, delighting in the way it made them shiver. They were so warm. That was the strange thing about kissing—no matter how many times you'd done it before, you were always a bit surprised at the warmth of each consecutive person. “You could visit me, if you wanted. If I kissed you for real right here… I wouldn’t want to stop.”

“I would enjoy that,” they squeezed his hand before disentangling themself from him abruptly.

“Your poems,” Montparnasse protested as they stepped away, wondering if he'd said something wrong. 

They smiled devilishly. “Check your jacket.”

“It’s cute you think that I, a master thief, wouldn’t notice when someone’s rifling around in my coat.”

Jehan patted their skirt pocket and frowned, pulling out their notebook. “How did you… how did—?”

“You want to learn how to rob someone for real?” he offered. “I mean, you probably actually have some experience, because you’re not half bad—”

“Montparnasse, how  _ dare _ you accuse me of such an abhorrent deed?” they swatted him with the notebook again before handing it to him, pecking him on the cheek sweetly. “You’re dreadful.”

“I don't deny it. But I think you quite enjoy me.”

“You think so?”

 

**Venezolano**

 

“Papá?” Grantaire called half-heartedly, locking the front door behind him. “Mamá? I’m home….”

A resounding silence greeted him; his parents must have gone to sleep a bit early. He slipped his keys into his pocket and crept upstairs, not bothering to turn any lights on.

“Grantaire, eres tu?” The voice was shrill and thin, coming from the room next to his own. Accompanying it were the bluish flashes of a TV screen and the frivolous ramblings of some Mexican telenovela.

“Abuela,” he grinned, starting to bound up the stairs two at a time, not caring if he woke anyone up anymore. “Yeah, I just got back—”

“¿En qué estabas pensando, volviendo tan tarde? Your parents were so worried!”

_ They’re asleep, abuela, _ he didn’t say. “Lo siento. There was a lot of traffic, that’s why I’m late—”

“Did you eat dinner? Tenemos cachapas en la nevera. I could heat them up on the stove for you.”

He knew his grandmother’s cachapas—Venezuelan corn pancakes usually topped with a soft white cheese—were so much better than the fast food he’d eaten on his way home, and he also didn’t want to run the risk of offending his grandma by rejecting her cooking. “Maybe just one,” he caved even though he was pretty full.

“Bueno,” she seemed thrilled, already halfway down the stairs to the kitchen. “But tell me, how did your piano go? They liked it?”

“I’ll find out in a few weeks.” 

“Do  _ you _ think they liked it?”

“I really hope so,” he joined her on the stairs.

She messed up his hair affectionately—not that his hair was hard to mess up, affectionately or otherwise. “Of course they did,” she decided, like that was that. “You are my grandson; how could they not? They loved it, and your papá is going to let you go to your school, and then you will be happy, sí?”

He smiled, if only for her sake. She didn’t really understand mental illness, that he was not simply  _ sad _ , that he was  _ depressed _ —getting much better since he’d started therapy and medication, but depressed all the same. “Yes,” he nodded. “I will be very happy if papá lets me be a pianist.”

“He will,” she decided again. “My son is like you, so he will.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. “Papá and I have nothing in common.”

“You are both Venezuelan,” she shrugged.

“I have light eyes and passably light skin and I’m fluent in English and I’m friends with a whole lot of white people,” he went down the rest of the staircase and turned the light on in the kitchen. “I can’t even remember what Caracas looks like, abuela, and I forget words in Spanish sometimes, or I just don’t get it if people talk too fast or use too much slang. Papá doesn’t think of me as from his country, and sometimes I’m scared he’s right.”

“You immigrated along with the rest of us,” his abuela said sternly, her hands on her hips. “Venezuela is in your blood; I can see it even if you can’t. Your papá is just confused because your dreams are not his dreams. But that does not mean they are less worth chasing. I say if you want to play music, you play music. That is why we all came here, no cierto? So you could have different dreams than us.”

He really didn’t want to cry in front of his grandmother, even though he had plenty of times before. “I’m supposed to be working hard, just like you. Like my parents.”

She messed up his hair again—vigorously. “Work hard, then. Work hard at your music like I know you will—like you already do. Make us proud.”

 

**Salted**

 

“Oh my God, they made more?” Eponine hung her keys on the hook by the door and kicked her boots off haphazardly.

“They said they felt bad you’re always having to leave the apartment.”

“I’ve got better things to do than sit around here all day.”

“I’ll tell them you said thanks.”

Jean Prouvaire was the only person in the history of the entire world to regularly leave tupperware containers of homemade cupcakes on the kitchen counter of the person they were casually hooking up with. But really, Montparnasse should have seen something like this coming.

Eponine grabbed one and collapsed on the couch, throwing her feet up recklessly. “Is this  _ salted _ caramel?” she asked, kicking him as he attempted to shove her feet over so he could sit.

“I don’t know, is it?” he stole the cupcake and took a bite. “Tastes like normal caramel to me. But I’ve probably built up some tolerance for salt since I’m around you all the time.”

“Asshole!” she protested, suddenly seized by a fit of laughter.

Montparnasse swung her feet off the couch and sat down definitively, eating the rest.

“You are  _ such _ an asshole!”

“You kicked me!”

“I’d do it again,” she set her feet on his lap and stretched, looking very much like she’d given up on violence and was ready to settle in for a nap.

“Why  _ salted _ caramel?”

“Hmm?” she yawned, closing her eyes.

“What does the fact that it’s salted mean?”

“Normal caramel is Jehan making stuff because they’re a nice person.  _ Salted _ caramel is them making stuff because they want you to  _ notice _ they’re a nice person.”

“Okay…” he leaned back on the couch. Was it strange that his chest felt too tight? “What’s your point?” 

“My point is they’re falling for you, ‘Parnasse, and they want you to know it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he almost laughed. Almost. “You’re reading way too much into it.”

“Am not.” She opened her eyes and tucked her feet underneath herself, suddenly interested in the conversation. “They’re not exactly subtle about their feelings. Neither are you, might I add.”

“I…” He was going to insist to her the same thing he had to Jehan back in the library—that he didn’t love them. But he found that he wanted to entertain this idea of hers—that in some universe there was a way for a dangerous thief and a careful poet to be together without any of the seams of their lives ripping apart.

“It’s okay,” she said, uncharacteristically gentle. “Happens to all.”

“God, I don’t want to break them,” he admitted, closing his eyes. “They are the most beautiful person, and they’re trusting so much of themself to me. I feel like I could snap them between my fingertips—”

“What makes you say that?” she put a hand on his arm, staring widely at him. 

Eponine was tough. She liked to keep her distance, to rely on herself and only herself. So when she was there for you, it really meant something. 

“I don’t think Jehan could ethically balance the sort of thing you and I do with the sort of person they want to be,” he said. “I feel them falling more and more into our lives, and it scares me because they might lose who they really are and what they really value if they get too… involved.”

She nodded and scooted back, giving him space. “I don’t think that will happen.”

He looked at her expectantly, waiting to hear the logic behind this.

“They just seem like the kind of person who knows what they’re doing.”

“Wow. Comforting.”

“No, really,” she poked him. “They had some idea of who you were before this whole thing even started, and it’s never bothered them. It’s not like they’re going to wake up one day and have a morality crisis. You know what I would do if it was Marius who was turning up around here instead of Jehan? Or—or if it was Cosette?” It was so rare that she acknowledged her feelings towards Marius; her mention of Cosette seemed to be shocking even herself. “If you even hint that I like either of them, I’ll—”

“Kill me, I know,” he smiled. Even the very strangest of sentiments could bring comfort if repeated enough. “I don’t doubt it, ‘Ponine.”

She continued, level-headed, “If either of them looked at me the way Jehan looks at you, I would certainly not be sitting around with my roommate. I would be spending every moment with them, addressing my doubts head-on.” She spread her hair out on top of the armrest, laying her head down. It looked kind of like a lion’s mane. “I don’t think it’s Jehan who’s close to snapping,” she continued. “I think it’s you. I think you’re afraid of getting rejected.”

Brutal honesty, as usual. Montparnasse appreciated it, kind of. Eponine always had a way of making (somewhat painfully) clear to him all the things he was forgetting about. “I  _ am _ afraid,” he admitted. “I’ve never loved anyone before.”

“Well, suck it up,” she yawned, closing her eyes again. “We could use that sweet, innocent face, that knowledge of all things literary… and they’re obviously really into you; they could say you're their boyfriend and I'm your sister or cousin or something—”

“I am  _ not _ using Jehan like that _ — _ ” 

“They might want to be used, you know. You should give them a chance. Let them shine. And like I said, we need a literary expert. We couldn't hold our own at a party full of high class writers for even two minutes; our cover would be instantly blown. With them, we stand a chance of coming and going through the front door. Why not make things easy for ourselves?”

He couldn’t believe she was suggesting this. “Because they could get shot. They could die.”

She scoffed, twirling a piece of hair between her fingers. “Who's going to shoot them?”

“I doubt the owners just leave the thing on the shelf, unguarded.”

“So we don't bring them along for the actual stealing part. We leave them at the party.” She rolled onto her side, evidently deciding that this conversation was over. 

“Good talk, ‘Ponine,” Montparnasse stood, nearly tripping over her shoes. “But I'm not bringing them.”

He'd gotten all the way across the room when she angrily called, “Don't forget about me.”

“What?”

“You said you never loved anyone, you little shit….”

Montparnasse smiled to himself. He’d told Jehan he didn't have any friends, and he still stood by that. Eponine was equal parts annoying sister and business partner. “You know I couldn’t get by without you.”

“Mmm,” she mumbled agreeably, already half asleep. “That’s better.”

 

**Brothers**

 

Enjolras was laying in bed with his eyes open, thinking about falling, when Combeferre interrupted his thoughts. “Enj, what happened today?”

He drew his blankets tighter around himself, barely able to make out the comfortable shape of his friend on the spare mattress on the floor—Combeferre slept here whenever he felt like it wasn’t safe for him to go home, which was more often than not these days. After years of Combeferre’s on-and-off presence, Enjolras had shoved his own bed frame and headboard in the attic so they could be level with each other on the floor. Equals.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked quietly, surprised that his voice didn’t go rough like usual.

“You’ve been upset.”

Something about his friend asking after him so gently—with no judgement, with no expectations—made it hard to say anything back. 

“You know I consider you a brother to me,” he continued. “You know I love you like one—and sometimes I tease you like one, too. I just want you to know that I’ll always be here for you. If you want to talk about anything, I want to listen.”

He nodded even though Combeferre couldn’t see it, wishing he could say something good back. He was so awful with people, with heartfelt sentiments of loyalty and affection. “That means a lot,” he replied. It sounded weak and ingenuine, even to him. 

The window was open, and ambient noises from the campus drifted up into Enjolras’ second-story bedroom. There was a concert going on at the arena tonight, and the singer’s breathy, silvery voice was barely audible over a couple drunk students talking loudly to each other in the street below.

“Do you mind the noise, ‘Ferre?” he asked. “Honestly?”

“Honestly? I find it soothing because I associate it with this place. At home it would be…” he broke off, not wanting to continue. “It would be worse.”

Here was one sensitive thing, at least, that Enjolras had gotten good at handling. “Three more months, ‘Ferre.” Meaning just one summer until he turned eighteen, until he left for college, until he was free.

He heard his friend’s breathing get deeper the way it did when he was counting—four seconds in, four seconds out. He said it calmed him down when he got angry. And for such a studious, seemingly shy guy, Combeferre was angry a lot. “I owe everything to you and your mom. I owe her for making a good college actually affordable for me. I owe you for keeping me sane, for taking me in.”

“You keep us both sane too, you know.”

Combeferre sat up and collected the pillows that he’d knocked over. The singer had launched into a new song—something about heartbreak, the notes stretched thin like a single touch could snap them. 

“Why does that make you angry?” Enjolras asked curiously. 

Combeferre paused. The drunk kids on the sidewalk laughed uproariously as they faded into the distance. “How’d you know I’m angry?” he asked at last.

“I could time your breath with a metronome right now.”

Combeferre tossed a pillow at him lightly. “Don’t time my breathing, weirdo. I just get upset when I think how much inconvenience I’ve caused your family—”

“‘Ferre—” he protested, suddenly dead serious.

“All those times when you came to my soccer games in the rain,” he continued undeterred, “when I needed extra money to pay for the SAT, when I came out to you and was sobbing for, like, three hours straight and your mom made a cake just because she wanted me to really get how much she supported me…”

“You inspired me to come out,” Enjolras remembered, “even though I didn’t know whether I was asexual or demisexual or gay. I still don’t really know.”

“My parents should’ve been there for that,” Combeferre continued. “You know, sometimes I  _ forget _ that they should’ve been there—like, it’s too big a hole to process. But then I think of one specific circumstance—they didn’t teach me to tie my shoes, a teacher did—and it’s enough to make me angry all over again.” At this point, the pillow was completely crushed between his arms. “Parents fuck up so easily.”

“Everyone fucks up easily.” Enjolras wasn’t thinking of anyone but himself.

“Well, yeah, but when parents do, it messes up their kids. When people like us do it, we only mess up ourselves.” He paused, flopping onto his back. “Sorry. I feel bad talking about this.”

“To me? Or in general?”

“I want you to think of me as a normal friend,” he answered vaguely. 

“‘Ferre, you’re not my friend. You said so yourself—you’re my brother.”

The song ended and people started to applaud. It would’ve been easy to hear Combeferre over it if he’d said something, but he stayed silent—almost like he was respecting the people down at the concert.

“We can get through it, Enjolras,” he said quietly, definitively. Whether  _ it  _ was the summer or college or their entire lives, Enjolras couldn’t tell. But Combeferre believed better days would come so hard it made Enjolras believe it too, even if just for that moment. 

 

**Glamorous**

 

Jehan tugged their blanket over themself and switched off their lamp at the same exact moment that a rock went hurtling at their window. The noise made them jump and they immediately switched the lamp back on, looking around for something that could have fallen off their bedside table—but there was nothing. Maybe it was a firework. A gunshot? They yanked their curtains aside and peered outdoors. It was like looking into city sky—all murky dark and nothingness. 

They stepped back as another rock flew at their window pane. Jehan hated to open the window during a summer night—they shuddered to think of all the bugs that would be drawn to their lamplight—but clearly, someone was trying to get their attention, and they were nothing if not courteous.

“Hello?” they called down, pulling it open just a sliver. (Also preparing to call the police, just in case.)

“Jean Prouvaire!” someone shouted—a female voice. “Get your ass down here. We need your help.”

“What? Eponine, is that you?”

“Get in, loser. We’re going shopping,” came the shout back, as someone revved an engine. “But with no money.” 

“Excuse me…?”

“Look, just come outside and we’ll explain everything.” Jehan was about to shut the window when she added, “And put on something… glamorous.”

They shut the window firmly, their heart beating hard in their chest. For a second, they considered doing absolutely nothing—just leaving the two of them to wait in the car for the rest of the night. Then they leaped to their feet and went to their closet, rummaging around for something strapless.

 

**Reunion**

 

Three months came and went. Enjolras passed them like he usually did, hanging out with Combeferre anywhere there was air conditioning and free wifi. They’d gone to pride, to the movies, to the ice cream store around the corner, to the mall. They’d moved their things into the dorm room they would share with each other about a month early. One night they even slept there just to see what it would be like (cramped and dubiously sanitary, but tolerable).

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the day Enjolras had been obsessing over for years had come.

He had Combeferre, that was his one comfort—his friend was sharply dressed in a knit sweater and navy pants. They both knew the campus, which was nice; they were learning people’s names by giving directions—Joly, Lesgle, Musichetta, Feuilly, Bahorel… 

“Enj,” Combeferre poked him with the end of his fork. “Enj….”

“Yeah?” he blinked, the tall windows and light wood floors of the cafeteria coming into focus. He’d probably been staring into space for a good five minutes.

“You gonna eat your fries?”

“Oh,” he said, looking around at the circle of faces he’d somehow found himself a part of. “Sure, go ahead.” There was Cute Barista Boy Courfeyrac, who’d brought Combeferre flowers. There was Courfeyrac’s friend Marius—a meek sort of guy, seemed nice enough but kind of wimpy—and Marius’ girlfriend Cosette. The two kept exchanging lovestruck glances that they thought were subtle but Enjolras found appalling. He could already see he was likely to be the token single friend of the group—if this would indeed be his group. He sort of hoped not. 

“I think I’m going to go ahead to my next class,” he told Combeferre quietly. 

“Are you sure?” Combeferre asked. In a softer tone, he added, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Enjolras assured him, already standing up. It wasn’t really a lie. He just needed to get some air, to be without all these new faces. The history class he would be taking sounded interesting anyway, and he thought it might not be a bad idea to get there early and introduce himself to the professor. 

It was a brisk day out—the trees were turning wonderful shades of red and orange, and students clutched warm drinks and bundled themselves in scarves and jackets as they hurried across campus. It was so easy to tell who was new and who wasn’t—who was looking at each building starrily, like any of them might lead to Narnia instead of a lecture, and who was greeting old acquaintances with subtle, already sleep-deprived nods and generally preferring to keep their head down. Enjolras passed a group of three girls with saxophone cases on their backs sitting on a statue of a lion poring over a paper map and a smartphone. They looked pitifully lost.

“Can I help you?” Enjolras offered in spite of his not wanting to talk to anyone new. 

“Would you?” one asked, ecstatic. “So, we know the conservatory building is to our right, but we’re trying to get to the jazz wing. There’s a class we had to be at five minutes ago.”

“Just go through the main doors straight ahead to the elevators and take a left. Look for the mosaic of the treble clef on the floor.”

“Oh my God, thank you. You have no idea how long we’ve been looking.”

“No problem,” he nodded, resisting the urge to add  _ enjoy your stay _ . They waved as they hurried away, leaving just Enjolras and the trees. 

No, not just him and trees. Not at all.

There was someone lounging on the other side of the statue the girls had just vacated drinking an apple cider, his face turned up to the crisp fall sun. He noticed Enjolras staring at him, his eyes going wide as he put his drink down. 

“It’s you,” Enjolras said, shocked.

“It’s  _ you _ ,” Grantaire ran over and tackled him in a hug so hard it nearly sent them both toppling over. “I got into the conservatory,” he added. “I got in.”

It was very hard, for some reason, for Enjolras to resist the urge to shove his hands through this man’s curls. Was that weird? “I never doubted you would.”

“How are you? How’s your friend?”

“Oh, he’s—he’s doing pretty good. Some guy brought him flowers—”

“Damn, already? Things move fast around here.”

“They don’t have to.” Enjolras didn’t even know what he was saying. “They can go as slow as they need to.”

“Of course,” Grantaire somehow caught onto his train of thought. “They’ll go… whatever speed it seems best for them to go.”

“Totally. Even if that speed is… like, reasonably fast, but then once things get to a certain point, slamming on the breaks. Maybe even shifting gear to reverse a little.”

He stepped back to look at Enjolras quizzically. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“So, I don’t know if I’m gay or demi or ace or what. But I… I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I’m really glad I’ve run into you again.”

“Oh,” Grantaire bit his lip almost shyly. “Next time just say that.”

“You don’t… mind?”

“Mind what? That you could be asexual?” he looked incredulous. “Are you… are you asking  _ me _ ?”

“Am I being blunt? I’m sorry, I’m hopeless with these kinds of situations.”

“Enjolras, if you thought me worthy of even a fraction of your attention—doesn’t matter if it’s platonic or romantic or—” he shook his head self-consciously like he thought he was doing everything wrong. “I’m getting so far ahead of myself.”

“What do you mean, ahead of yourself?” Enjolras respected people who didn’t mess around with metaphors or euphemisms or small talk—mostly because he was terrible at all three.

“At least let me buy you dinner first,” Grantaire shrugged, half joking. “We should know each other for a minimum of three days before we collectively question your sexuality, I think.”

Enjolras had never been asked on a real date before. He knew some girls from high school had liked him, but they were too intimidated to do more than just joke about it—and he didn’t even like girls that way. But he did like Grantaire, even if he wasn’t quite sure how. “Ask me better,” he straightened out his shirt.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m interested, but not if it’s all a joke to you.”

To his surprise (and horror?) Grantaire dropped down on one knee right where he stood and grabbed both of his hands, dead serious. “Enjolras…” Grantaire seemed to be searching for a second name to make it more formal.

“Just Enjolras.” He was surprised at how levelly his voice came out.

“No last name?”

“It  _ is _ my last name.”

“I’ve been calling you by your last name this whole time?”

“The author didn’t bother with a first name. It’s more timeless this way.”

“Oh, okay,” he nodded. It was perfectly sensible. “Yeah, I don’t have a first name either. Enjolras Enjolras, I would be thrilled if you would accompany me to dinner—I mean, whenever you’re free.”

 

**Prom**

 

Jehan hadn’t gone to prom in high school—the whole occasion just wasn’t meant for someone like them. Wearing a tux would’ve felt horrible, but they had no desire to get beat up in the parking lot for wearing a dress or a skirt. Going with a girl, they would’ve felt like some sort of imposter, but there were no boys back then who even  _ tolerated _ their long hair and flowers and skirts, let alone found any of those things to be  _ attractive _ .

Standing on the front doorstep of this ugly McMansion wearing a long, silver dress next to Montparnasse in a jet black, impeccably tailored tuxedo and Eponine in a dark red jumpsuit, they felt like they were kind of getting a do-over. (Although they’d hardly come here for the champagne or the company.)

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Montparnasse was asking them, touching their elbow gently.

They felt like they were almost floating from adrenaline, like they might start laughing at any second. “Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

At that moment, the front door flew open, nearly smacking into all three of them as a drunk party-goer and their sober, exasperated friend staggered to a car.

“You can always change your mind,” Montparnasse said, ignoring Eponine’s dangerous look. “You can always turn around, even now.”

They were getting quite tired of having to prove themself. “Why don’t you ever believe me when I say I can handle things?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt. And this might be a… a difficult situation.”

Someone inside the house was noticing the three of them standing around. Jehan knew they didn’t have a lot of time to speak freely before they’d have to be in character—a high class writer, a rising star. They grabbed his hand firmly, not sure how they could say all they wanted in only a few seconds—and then remembering that they weren’t only  _ pretending _ to be a poet. “Granted, we die for good,” they quoted. “Life, then, is largely a thing of happens to like, not should.” 

Jehan stepped inside then, leading Montparnasse and Eponine forward by their hands and going up to the person that had noticed them. They figured it was a more assertive, confident way of introducing themself than just waiting on the doorstep.

“What a nice party,” they commented, releasing Eponine and leaning more fully on Montparnasse as they looked around. People were chatting idly with each other in clusters, lounging on minimalistic furniture and sipping cheap champagne. A jazz record was playing on a beat-up phonograph. Everyone was trying very hard to appear affluent. Some were succeeding more than others. “And a lovely home,” they added. By the look in Montparnasse’s eyes they could tell that they’d just barely managed to sell it.

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourselves.” The woman that had been watching them indiscreetly for the past five minutes was smallish and elderly, wearing a plum colored dress and a string of chunky saltwater pearls—she was one of the people who were clearly not pretending their wealth. “I don’t seem to recall your names,” she said pointedly—they had not been invited.

“Jean Prouvaire,” they shook her hand warmly, smiling in what they hoped was a dazzling fashion. They wanted to make her think there had been some sort of misunderstanding on her part. “It’s a pleasure to be here. This is… Matthew,” they kissed Montparnasse on the cheek in lieu of deciding just then whether he was a friend or a proper  _ boy _ friend. “And this is… Emily.”

Eponine managed an awkward curtsey—charm was not her strong suit—and Jehan continued, covering for her, “It’s so generous of you to invite up-and-coming poets to your gatherings—so often I find that established writers would rather keep their circles closed to new voices, but that’s never been the case with your family.”

She rolled a pearl between her thumb and middle finger, seeming unsure of herself. Good. “What did you say your name was, dear?” A couple people joined their conversation, intrigued.

“Jean Prouvaire,” they repeated, inclining their head modestly. 

“Prouvaire?” one man—a newcomer—repeated, extending his hand. “What a nice surprise! You didn’t tell me we’d invited them, mother,” he said to the woman, and then added to Jehan, “I’m very fond of your poetry.”

They couldn’t have asked for a better coincidence. “Thank you,” they smiled broadly, genuinely. “It makes me so happy when people enjoy my work.”

More people were drifting into their circle, drawn to Jehan like moths to their bedroom window. Montparnasse and Eponine took the opportunity of movement to slip away, knowing that Jehan would cover for them—if people noticed their absence at all.

“See,” Eponine said, hushed, as they crept up a flight of stairs. She was the only person Montparnasse knew who could walk silently in high heels. “They’re doing great. They’ll be fine.”

He was about to answer that of course Jehan was great; she didn’t need to reassure him—but honestly, Montparnasse was kind of amazed at how poised and confident and calm they were when he knew that every bone in their body was aching to go home and get lost in a book. Maybe they  _ were _ lost in a book right now, writing the people around them into characters, turning the whole party into fiction. They’d once said something to him—even though life was the way it was, the power to change description and call attention to and away from certain elements of it was as close as they would ever get to a feeling of complete control.

“Matthew,” Eponine snapped her fingers in front of his face lightly. He wasn’t someone that got startled; stuff like this just made him kind of annoyed. “Stop worrying about them. I need you here with me.”

He nodded, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I’m behind you, Emily.”

She glared at him as he barely managed to conceal his smirk. “Did you lift his phone?”

Montparnasse reached into his jacket and pulled out the slick smartphone he’d taken from Jehan’s fan’s pocket as they left the room, handing it to Eponine, who immediately set about getting through the lock screen. It only took her a few seconds—she had so much practice casually hacking into things it was scary. Montparnasse made sure to never leave anything password-protected anywhere she could get to it.

“I can’t believe they’d control every single security camera with one app on some guy’s phone when they own something so valuable,” Montparnasse remarked as she jabbed at the screen and then wiped the fingerprints off on her shirt.

“Just let an easy job be an easy job,” she suggested, putting the phone on the floor. The man would notice it was missing—better for him to retrace his steps and think it fell out of his pocket than for him to know there were thieves in his midst.

“We don’t  _ get _ easy jobs.” He’d explained this to Jehan in the car; the Patron-Minette was an elite team of thieves that various organizations hired out to steal important things from important people, not your typical gang of ne’er-do-wells—although this made a surprisingly decent cover story. And while it seemed easy enough to sneak into some rich guy’s library and take a book or two, Montparnasse and Eponine wouldn’t be there unless things could get messy.

They didn’t know how clever this family was. They didn’t know if the house being open for a party was an act of ignorance or an act of assertiveness. Either way, they’d taken advantage of it to simply walk through the door and say hello—it was much easier than trying to break in through a window at night, and if they got caught, there was still a chance they could play it off as them getting lost on the way to the bathroom. (Not a  _ good _ chance, but a chance all the same.)

Eponine was walking up ahead of Montparnasse, keeping close to the walls out of instinct. She’d been able to negotiate the blueprints of this model of house from its architect, and had already narrowed down which rooms seemed like they could be libraries or studies. But that wasn’t really much help, because the particular book they were looking for—a first edition, first printing copy of  _ The Catcher in the Rye _ valued at about 15,000 dollars—was valuable enough to be kept by itself in a hidden safe. 

So basically, they had a few hours at most to upend every corner of this tiny mansion without getting caught. 

“I should’ve gotten champagne,” Montparnasse thought out loud, straightening his tie as Eponine carefully tested the door to the room she thought would be the library. It didn’t budge.  “Good sign?” he asked as he slipped his lockpicks out of the leather case in his pocket, making short work of the lock.

“I guess we’ll see,” she said, quickly checking for traps they could be disturbing—things like a piece of paper tucked between the door and its frame that would fall out when they opened it, letting people know they’d been inside. There were none. She slipped on some thin gloves she kept in her pocket so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints and was about to turn the doorknob when Montparnasse stopped her with an arm.

She stared up at him expectantly.

“I don’t like this,” he explained. “It should be harder than stealing a phone and picking a lock. It should be more dangerous. It should be  _ more _ .”

“‘Parnasse, what’s making you so afraid tonight? We don’t have time to be hesitating like this.”

He pulled his arm away slowly; he didn’t know.

“Look, even if there’s trouble here—which I highly doubt there is—we’ll get out of it,” she promised, touching his arm. “We’ll get out of it like we always do.” Eponine opened the door boldly, walking straight inside and gesturing him forward.

He would have felt a lot better if he’d brought weapons—he hadn’t wanted to risk it in case they were searched. But Eponine was good at this sort of thing, and he trusted her judgement, so he followed her inside dutifully.

It  _ was _ a library—a pretty impressive one, too. Books were piled two rows deep on the tall shelves and spilled into stacks on the floor and the tables and the sofa in the corner. Montparnasse, after giving the room a thorough once-over, went to the far wall and started to search the shelves there in case any of them just happened to hold  _ The Catcher in the Rye _ .

Then, exactly three things happened all at once.

One: he noticed how strange it was that there was an open window; it was a waste of air conditioning in the hot summer months. And this wasn’t the sort of room that got a lot of fresh air—dust coated every surface—so someone must have opened it on purpose.

Two: someone screamed like they were about to drop dead. It sounded an awful lot like Jean Prouvaire.

Three: a gun went off.

 

**Blue**

 

People who said water was blue had never taken a careful enough look at the ocean—it was so clearly mauve at dusk, orange at sunset, gray at twilight, silver at day, black at night. It didn’t like to be defined clearly as blue or even blue-green; its thousands of Monet hues ran natural and wild and untamable.  Enjolras was a different thing altogether, Grantaire thought—a product of society and humankind, of civilization and order, of right and wrong. When Enjolras was blue, he was blue enough for Johann Strauss to waltz to. 

He didn’t realize he was humming the tired old melody of  _ Danube  _ until Enjolras lifted his gaze from the non-blue, glassy water they could see from the window of the restaurant. “You’ve been looking at me,” he observed—not impassive, but not particularly bothered, either.

“Sorry.” Grantaire scooted his chair in a little as some other customers went by them. This was a popular place in the coastal town about half an hour from campus, with a trendy, casual sort of feel to it. There was always a low buzz of noise and activity and other people’s conversations. “I don’t mean to stare.”

“It’s all right,” Enjolras shrugged. “I just don’t know what you find so captivating.”

Was he looking for a compliment or was he genuinely insecure? He didn’t seem like the kind of person who thought about what he looked like that much. “Surely you have some idea how beautiful you are.”

“Beauty,” he repeated, tapping his fingernails on his glass absentmindedly. “I have no idea what that means, to think someone is beautiful.”

“I might be able to explain it.” As he said the words, he realized they weren’t all that true. Grantaire could come up with pages and pages of things he found beautiful about Enjolras, but that wasn’t an explanation of beauty; it was an explanation of  _ Enjolras _ .

“You certainly wouldn’t be the first to try.” He gazed back out the window again—with all of the public transportation in and around the university, he probably didn’t own a car to drive himself out to the coast. He seemed enthralled by the motion of the waves he rarely ever saw. The setting sun lit his face in pink and orange. “I still think you’re beautiful, Grantaire,” he added tersely, like an afterthought. He was strange in that way—anytime he tried to flirt he took on the appearance of someone in a tense political debate, and anytime he was in a tense political debate, he took on the appearance of someone flirting. He was obviously much more at ease discussing legislation than he was contemplating his personal affections.

“I just don’t know in what way you’re beautiful,” Enjolras continued, oblivious to how Grantaire was fidgeting with the tablecloth like his life depended on it. “And I can’t explain exactly what it is about you or anyone that I’ve felt this way for, not that there are many—I could count them on one hand.”

“It bothers you that you don’t know?” Grantaire managed to say, pausing to smooth out the tablecloth.

“Well, yes,” he said, like he’d never thought being  _ un _ bothered was an option. “Obviously. I want to know whether I’m asexual or not. It’s like everyone is speaking in a foreign language I can only barely comprehend, no matter how hard I try. And instead of talking slower or using easier words, people laugh at my horrible attempts to understand. They think if I just tried to speak the language, I would figure out that I’ve been fluent this whole time. And, I don’t know, maybe they’re right.”

Grantaire was remembering times when new slang words in Spanish got him tripped up on whole sentences and people laughed at him for it without ever explaining where he’d messed up. “You don’t owe them the effort of trying to understand if they don’t even want to be understood.”

“But I have to  _ know _ . I have to  _ know _ why I think things and why I act the way I do. I  _ have _ to know exactly how I like you, because you are wonderful and you deserve a concrete answer. And I hate that I can’t give you one.”

Grantaire glanced at the table, that look in his eyes that people always got when Enjolras was being way too intense. 

Had Enjolras done something wrong? Socializing was like a game of connect the dots with everything but the first and last dot erased. “Sorry,” he tried. “I forget that not everyone likes to argue.”

“Oh, no, I love arguing. It’s one of my favorite things. You’re just…” he shook his head weakly. “You’re amazing. I don’t know how one person can be so passionate, so convincing. You should be an activist if you aren’t already. I mean, I would join a cause if you told me it’s important. And so far tonight, you’ve talked to me about the economy, immigration, global warming, gun control, abortion, and the electoral college, so you clearly have some sort of agenda….”

Something about that made him smile. “I… I’ve actually thought about doing some activism. It’s why I picked political science as my major—I’ve always wanted to change things. I just don’t know where to start. I couldn’t do all of it on my own.”

“I could help,” Grantaire offered. “Combeferre seems smart and capable. He could help. That guy who likes him can help. I think if you made a proper club at the university, you could recruit a lot of people.”

Enjolras was clutching the edge of the table tight between his hands, like he could squeeze all of his problems straight into the wood. “Maybe. But a lot of people is… a lot. And I’m always worried I won’t be enough.”

Grantaire understood that the sentiment was about much more than the leadership of a hypothetical political club. He reached under the table and set his hand on Enjolras’ knee lightly, watching his expression to make sure it was okay. “I would still want to date you if you were asexual,” he said firmly. “You know that, right? I would still consider myself lucky.”

Enjolras rarely cried, but his eyes were a little wet. Because he really  _ hadn’t _ known until Grantaire had come right out and said it, and he still had plenty of doubts—love without sex went against everything he’d ever been taught about what a relationship was, what it could be, what it _sho_ _ uld _ be. And, more than that, Grantaire was trying to understand. He was slowing down. He was speaking in Enjolras’ language.

“Thank you so much,” he said simply, sliding his hand on top of Grantaire’s before blurting out, “What do you do during therapy?”  It was an unsubtle way of bringing it up. A non-sequitur. But he was already ripped open. He wanted to bring every last, shaky bit of himself to the surface while he still had the courage to do so.

Grantaire considered his question calmly, which was strange. Enjolras had played out this conversation with his mom dozens of times in his head. None of her imagined responses were ever calm. “It depends what kind of therapy,” he said, playing with Enjolras’ fingers absentmindedly, “and it depends why you’re going in the first place. My therapist usually starts our sessions by having me talk about what’s going on in my life in general. Then she’ll ask about my depression specifically and sometimes checks whether I think the meds are still working. She points out when my thinking gets to be unhealthy—a big part of it is helping me to internalize that I can’t help what I feel, but I can help what I do; I can help how I treat people.”

“And it’s been… beneficial?”

He covered Enjolras’ knee a bit more firmly, looking him straight in the eye. “I would not be here without it.”

Enjolras slid his other hand on top of Grantaire’s. “I’m sorry. You took me all the way out here, and I’m not being much fun.”

“No, no. It means a lot that you would trust me enough to talk about this. I know how delicate—how  _ on display _ it can feel. Like everyone’s judging you all the time. Like you’re going to break into a thousand pieces.”

“You’re going to make me cry,” he blinked. He cried when he felt understood and hopeless—while he was an adamant believer that there was always hope, sometimes it didn't really feel like it. “Please change the subject before I start crying with all these people around.”

“Well,” Grantaire started slowly, not wanting to cut Enjolras off if he actually had more to say, “we wouldn’t want anything to redden those beautiful blue eyes….”

Enjolras was now both laughing and crying. A couple people were staring. He didn’t care. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“They’re like limpid sapphires! Like the ocean!”

“Stop!” He was laughing so hard he thought he might fall out of his chair. The sun was almost down, and the water was reflecting orange back at them. “You know the ocean doesn’t look blue at all.”

 

**Ghost**

 

“You have a visitor.”

Montparnasse opened his eyes, his head pounding. He wished for someone. How strange, to wake up and wish for someone. For anyone. For Eponine. For the whole entire Patron-Minette. He hated the man he’d been only a few days ago—the one who claimed not to have friends. He’d only realized how many friends he’d had when he’d gotten cut off from them. 

It had only been a few days. But he wasn’t tough enough for even twelve hours. He needed people. He needed silly and fragile and human, needed love, needed warmth. Needed soft.  It was disturbing. He would have liked to think he could handle jail better than this. But maybe it was just the exact circumstance of how he got here that was messing with his head.

“Come on, get up,” came the voice again. “You’re damn lucky we’re even allowing this, you know.”

He stood, feeling like his legs might give out, like he might just end up collapsed on the floor of his jail cell. The officer led him through medical-white hallways, always eyeing him like he was about to start a fight. 

He wasn’t. Not now. Not after what happened. He thought he might never throw a punch ever again. All the fight had been drained out of him with that scream. 

They got to the visitation room—the nice one where you weren’t separated from the world by a glass wall. It was unexpected, given how the police still thought the gunshot (and the death that resulted from it) had been his doing. And who would bother to visit him now? Members of the Patron-Minette were all smart enough to keep their names out of the penal system if they could help it. Maybe Eponine would’ve taken her chances if she had something really important to say, but she was locked up, too. 

Montparnasse went inside without being prompted. The room was so white. There was the institutional LED strip blinding him from above, the shiny tile floor, the speckled walls, the silver one-way mirror and table and chair. He wished jail could be like it was in the movies—dark and somber and moody.

The door closed behind him and he was on his own. Odd. Of course they were observing through the mirror and security cameras and audio feeds, but it was strangely accommodating that they bothered to create an illusion of privacy for an alleged murderer—that took the whole  _ innocent until proven guilty  _ thing to another level.

He could have sat, but he preferred to face the unknown on his feet.  The door across from him clicked open. It smelled sort of like cool rain during the summer.  _ Petrichor _ . That was the word. He’d asked. It was like a stab in the gut, that smell, that word, those memories.

“Montparnasse.”

The door shut and he wondered if ghosts were real. 

“Montparnasse….”

He couldn’t help but fall hard on his knees, like he was praying to some god or goddess. For the first time in his life, he thought he  _ could _ pray. He could speak of a benevolent creator and mean every word.  Because no matter what had happened to him, Jean Prouvaire was alive. Jean Prouvaire was okay. Jean Prouvaire had not been shot that night.

Before he could stand, their arms were wrapped tight around him, their body small and shaking. He didn’t even realize that he was crying just as hard—if not harder—than them until he tried to get words out and his voice kept breaking. “I thought you were dead. I thought they thought I killed you.”

They pulled away from him—there was a limit to how much physical contact the officers would tolerate, even if they weren’t in the room—and wiped their tears roughly with their sleeve. “You thought I was…?”

“I heard you scream.”

“Oh, ‘Parnasse…” they choked out weakly, burying their face in their hands. “God. No. I screamed, but it—it was some man who died. A stranger.”

He pulled their hands away from their face gently so he could look them in the eye. Their face was like honey. Like sweetened tea. “I don’t shoot to kill.”

“I know,” they whispered. “I know you didn’t do it.” There was an air of absolute certainty about them that was a little off-putting. Jehan leaned in like they were about to press a kiss to his cheek, and added in an even quieter tone, “He wasn’t shot. He was stabbed.”

They kissed the tip of his ear and sat back, staring at him like they’d just said something monumental. “Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing of happens to like, not should.” It was the same poem they’d quoted before the party, but if they were hoping that he’d derive some meaning from it, they were sorely mistaken. 

“They’ll have to let you go once they figure out what really happened—Eponine, too. That’s what I came to tell you.” Jehan glanced at their watch, frowning. “They’re going to make me leave soon. It was hard to convince them to let me see you face-to-face—the Patron-Minette had to cash in a lot of favors—but I just had to let you know.”

Montparnasse didn’t want them to go. He didn’t want them to ever leave his side again. “Jehan…” he said, mostly just to feel their name on his lips, to feel what it meant that they were alive.

They smiled, another few tears slipping down their face before they could stop it. 

“I love you.”

“I always wondered what it’d be like to hear you say that.” Jehan took the back of his hand and pressed their lips to it, slow and gentle. “You already know I love you, too.”

 

**Vigilante**

 

Enjolras’ circle of friends was growing somewhat bigger.

There was Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire—the main group—and then several others who came and went as schedules allowed, like Cosette and Marius and Joly and Lesgle and Bahorel and Feuilly and about a million other people whose names he kept forgetting. 

Today, nearly everyone had made it to the coffee shop Courfeyrac worked at in the library. And nearly everyone was  _ incensed _ .

They were talking about the arrest of two people who’d done nothing but get themselves into the wrong place at the wrong time. It was all over the newspaper, the TV, social media—the guy had a set of lockpicks on him and apparently matched the physical description of some mastermind thief (yeah, right, a mastermind thief in their tiny, boring little college town) but that was no excuse to lock him up for murder when he didn’t even have a gun on him. 

“Wait,” Combeferre said, scrolling through a news app on his phone. “Enjolras.” He scrolled down to a picture—someone in brightly colored clothing getting into a car. “Enjolras,” he repeated a little louder. 

Enjolras took the phone and looked at the picture. It seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. 

“We  _ know _ them,” Combeferre said. “That’s Jehan. Jean Prouvaire. Oh my God.”

“The… the poet?” He zoomed in. It was hard to recognize them with such a distraught look on their face, but it seemed like the Jehan he knew—braided hair, fair skin, ridiculous outfit. “Our _university_ _librarian_ is connected to all of this?”

“I guess so.” He looked around, like Jehan would appear out of thin air. “Should we find them? Are they here right now? What would we say?”

“If it were me,” commented Courfeyrac, wiping down the table next to theirs, “I’d want to know I’ve got people I can go to for support.” Combeferre leaned back in his chair and Courfeyrac kissed his forehead chastely before heading to the next table—their affection was so routine to everybody at that point, no one even blinked. Even Enjolras had grown to appreciate it—Courfeyrac knew how to lighten discussion, how to keep people around each other and make them enjoy themselves. He was good for 'Ferre, who was a chronic over-worker. 

“This person… Jehan? They might want space,” Grantaire argued. “They’re probably getting bothered enough by reporters and people online as it is.”

Enjolras was considering both of these things when Cosette interrupted, clinging onto Marius’ arm, “The woman who was arrested—her name’s Eponine, and she’s a dear friend.” Cosette and Marius had both been rather pale lately, like they were intensely worried over something, and this explained it perfectly.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre touched her shoulder. “That’s terrible.”

She shook her head. “As long as we get her back….”

“I think we should talk to Jehan if we can find them,” Combeferre decided, looking towards Enjolras. “And we should make this group, like… a  _ thing _ . I think we could really make an impact if we all worked together on this issue.”

“A  _ thing _ ?” Grantaire repeated amusedly. “A hip, benevolent, vigilante justice squad?”

“I don’t know about  _ vigilante _ ,” Combeferre narrowed his eyes, “but yes to hip and benevolent justice.”

“Enjolras is in,” Grantaire slapped his hands on the table. “Sign him up. I guess I’ll join, too.”

“You can’t volunteer me.” Enjolras glanced at Grantaire. “But actually, that sounds really cool, 'Ferre. I’ve been wanting to become a part of something like this for a long time.”

“I want to help, too,” called Courfeyrac from behind the counter as he brewed an espresso.

The murmurs of agreement were coming fast and insistent from everyone at the table. It seemed like Enjolras had found himself a soldier in a small, friendly army.

 

**Epilogue I**

 

“You never told me,” Montparnasse said, leaning against the empty velvet seat in front of him as Jehan played absently with their hair. “You never told me how you knew that guy had been stabbed.”

Jehan sighed delicately and set their hands in their lap. “That was a dreadful time; I don’t know why you insist on bringing it up so often.”

“Because you won’t tell me what happened,” he smiled, sitting upright and crossing his arms. “It’s just making me curious.”

Jehan looked around them at the mostly empty auditorium. There was a piano up on the stage, and Grantaire was nervously pacing around it while Enjolras failed to reassure him that everything was going to be fine. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were dealing with tickets and programs, and Eponine, Cosette, and Marius were outside hanging a huge banner they’d all painted:  _ Les Amis de l’ABC Annual Fundraiser Concert: All Proceeds Benefit the ACLU.  _

They smiled, leaning into him slightly. “You already know, don’t you? You figured it out. Or Eponine did, and she told you.”

“Maybe. But I want to hear it from you.”  _ Largely a thing of happens to like, not should. _

They wound their fingers through his carefully. “I was the one who killed that man.”

Montparnasse bit his lip. He knew that was a likely explanation, but he hadn’t really wanted to accept that his sweet Jehan could also be… this.

“I think he was also after  _ The Catcher in the Rye _ , but I’m not positive—it could have been some sort of security guard. Something was just so  _ off _ about him. I noticed him sneaking outside, so I followed, taking a knife from the kitchen just in case he tried to attack me. And then I saw him aiming a gun at you through an open window. I screamed because I knew what I had to do and I was terrified because I actually had it in me to do it. And then I stabbed him. If I hadn’t, you and Eponine would both be dead. He tried to fire at me but he was too weak to aim right at that point.”

“I’m sorry…” Montparnasse said weakly. “I’m so, so sorry. I can’t even imagine.”

They shuddered, not saying anything, crushing his hand. 

Montparnasse and Eponine had been released because examination of the man’s wound had shown that he’d been stabbed, not shot—and you couldn’t stab someone from hundreds of feet away even when you bore a striking resemblance to a prominent member of a crew of thieves, even when you had broken into a locked room with a fancy set of picks, even when your story didn’t quite add up. He and Eponine had no clear motive and a legion of dedicated supporters backing them—the most notable of which included all present company.

Jehan had saved him several times. The first was when they’d proclaimed their friendship to him loud and clear, the second was when they’d traded their notebook for a kiss, the third was when they’d made  _ salted _ caramel and not normal caramel, the forth was when they’d gotten into Eponine’s car—they just kept saving and saving, like some sort of personal guardian angel. And he wished that—just once—he could save them right back. 

Montparnasse pulled them close, feeling like he might cry. “I love you so much,” he whispered, twirling their braid around his fingers. It wasn’t a lot, but it was all he could do.

They pulled away from him and he was left momentarily wondering whether he’d down something wrong before they grinned and dangled his watch in front of his face. “Love you, too.”

“You know I let you take it,” he protested, grabbing for it as they held it just out of reach.

“Maybe. But you didn’t let me take this,” they held up his wallet.

He was promptly rendered speechless. Nobody had ever been able to take anything from him before.

“So, is the Patron-Minette accepting applications?”

 

**Epilogue II**

 

Enjolras was so proud of his boyfriend. This concert—their group’s second annual—had done so much better than the previous year’s. Granted, the previous year, Courfeyrac had sung through the entirety of  _ Thoroughly Modern Millie _ by himself (complete with tap dancing) which was very amusing for his friends but not so great for an audience of strangers.  They’d raised a few hundred dollars today and it was all thanks to Grantaire’s wonderful playing—it had increased awareness of their group and even brought in several new members.

Enjolras was talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about plans for next year—would they need to break into smaller divisions or was the group more effective as a large, loose society of friends?—when Grantaire bowled him over out of nowhere, throwing his arms around his neck.

Enjolras toppled into the chair he was leaning on, happily smothered by kisses.

“I’ve been thinking,” Grantaire said between kissing his nose and his cheekbone, “I’m going to be famous one day.”

Enjolras laughed giddily while Grantaire continued, “I’m going to tour the world and play piano, and you’re going to come with me. We’re going to see everything, and you’re going to learn about every type of person there is and you’ll fight for every single one of them. You’ll write a bestselling autobiography about your life as a figure of hope and I’ll write the score for the film adaptation. It’ll be marvellous.”

He had nothing to say; in that moment he was utterly consumed by his love for Grantaire. Someone cleared their throat loudly. “Shut up, Combeferre—” Enjolras was in the middle of saying before he realized who it was and immediately righted himself and his boyfriend. “Mother. And, um—” What do you call your boyfriend’s parents? “Hello.”

Enjolras’ mom was smiling at them both knowingly—the kind of  _ ah, to be young and in love _ smile that older people sometimes got. “You must be Grantaire,” she shook his hand. “I can’t believe I haven’t met you or your lovely parents until now—my son talks about you all the time. And you play wonderfully.”

“Thank you very much,” Grantaire said, grabbing Enjolras’ hand discreetly. He glanced at his parents and a woman who must have been his grandmother like he was preparing for some sort of fight.

“This is your boyfriend?” his grandma said, eyeing Enjolras appraisingly. “What does  _ he _ do?”

“Abuela…” Grantaire murmured, embarrassed, but Enjolras could see the love in his eyes. 

What  _ did _ he do _? _ “Well, I’m a political science major,” Enjolras told her. “I’m a founding member of this club. I want to help people, protect them from unjust systems and governments, and educate them about their rights. And I really love your grandson.” 

Whatever test he was going through, he must have passed, because she nodded once, with unsentimental finality. Enjolras’ mom patted him on the shoulder like  _ there’s my son, the revolutionary _ .

“Papá?” Grantaire interrupted suddenly, his voice abrasive. “Did you like the concert?”

His dad looked surprised, like he hadn’t been expecting Grantaire to single him out. When he spoke, he chose his words very carefully. “It reminded me of my childhood. Of el sistema.”

El sistema—the system, the shorthand name of Venezuela’s public sector music education program. Grantaire had talked about it before—he’d gotten into classical music after watching videos of Gustavo Dudamel, a conductor who’d been educated under el sistema. But he’d never mentioned his dad.

“You were…?” Grantaire managed, just as shocked as Enjolras.

“Perhaps I was jealous,” his dad continued. “Jealous that you got the chances I never did. And seeing you on stage—it breaks my heart to think I could have stopped you from achieving your dreams. I hope you will find it in yourself to someday forgive me.”

Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ hand before letting it go entirely. “Por supuesto, Papá,” he mumbled. “Por supuesto.” He looked back around at Enjolras and his mom. “I’m sorry, will you excuse us? I think we have some things to talk about.”

“Of course, dear,” Enjolras’ mom said, patting Grantaire on the back lightly. “It was great to meet all of you. I hope we’ll see each other soon.”

As they walked away, Enjolras felt a strange sort of knot work itself into his stomach. He hadn’t been completely alone with his mom in a long time—without Combeferre, without Grantaire, without anyone.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said immediately. “I’m so proud of all the things you’ve accomplished.”

“I mean, it’s not like I started a university or anything, but…” He thought of the friends he made and the things they’d all achieved together. “I guess we’ve done some pretty cool stuff.”

“Grantaire is delightful, by the way, and so is Courfeyrac—where did Combeferre get off to, anyway? I was going to take you both to dinner.”

Enjolras knew Combeferre would be so happy to hear that his mom still cared about what he was up to, still considered him a second son. He also knew Combeferre and Courfeyrac were probably kissing in a bathroom stall and did  _ not _ wish to be interrupted, even for food. 

And then Enjolras thought about Grantaire a little harder. He had been angry with his dad. Intimidated. Resentful. But he’d managed to address his problems head-on, and that took courage—courage that he wasn’t sure he had.

“Sweetie?” his mom asked, looking at him concernedly. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”

“I need to talk to you,” he spit out, not realizing what he was saying; he’d been thinking it so hard that the words had just come out when he’d tried to talk. “I really need to talk to you, and I have for a long time.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Table Talk  
> by Wallace Stevens
> 
> Granted, we die for good.  
> Life, then, is largely a thing  
> Of happens to like, not should.
> 
> And that, too, granted, why  
> Do I happen to like red bush,  
> Grey grass and green-gray sky?
> 
> What else remains? But red,  
> Gray, green, why those of all?  
> That is not what I said:
> 
> Not those of all. But those.  
> One likes what one happens to like.  
> One likes the way red grows.
> 
> It cannot matter at all.  
> Happens to like is one  
> Of the ways things happen to fall.


End file.
